"'Tis a miserable thing," says Glanvil, "to have been happy; and a self-contented wretchedness is a double one. Had felicity always been a stranger to humanity, our present misery had not been. And had not ourselves been the authors of our ruin, less. We might have been made unhappy; but since we are miserable, we chose it. He that gave our outward enjoyments might have taken them from us, but none could have robbed us of innocence but ourselves. While man knows no sin, he is ignorant of nothing that it imports humanity to know; but when he has sinned, the same transgression that opens his eyes to see his own shame, shuts them against most things else but that, and the newly-purchased misery. With the nakedness of his body, he sees that of his soul, and the blindness and disarray of his faculties to which his former innocence was a stranger; and that which shows them to him makes them. No longer the creature he was made, he loses not only his Maker's image, but his own. And does not much more transcend the creatures placed at his feet, than he comes short of his ancient self." Whose the decree Souls Magdalens must be To know felicity, The path to it Through pleasure's pit, Soft sin undress Them of their holiness,-- Hath heaven so writ? Happier the fate That opes heaven's gate With crystal key Of purity, And thus fulfils life's destiny. [Illustration] AUGUST. "... The milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And as it works the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we: How can such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with fruits and flowers?" --_Marvell._ [Illustration] PLATO'S LETTERS. TUESDAY, 3. Days like these give dignity and loveliness to the landscape; the scene enhanced by imperial tints of gold and purple, the orchards bending with their ruddy burdens. It is the season of nectar and ambrosia, and suggests the Platonic bees, the literature and conversation of the Academy and Lyceum. Very interesting reading these letters of Plato, and a goodly volume to hold in one's hand, in antique type and binding. Whether a reprint would reward the publisher, I cannot say. His seventh letter is an affecting piece of autobiography, and, taken with Plutarch's Dion, gives the best picture of his journeys to Syracuse that history affords. * * * * *